


Talking with Wolves

by Vathara



Series: Urban Legends [8]
Category: Airwolf
Genre: Alternate Universe - Fantasy, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Psionics
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-27
Updated: 2018-07-27
Packaged: 2019-06-16 22:25:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,399
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15447177
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Vathara/pseuds/Vathara
Summary: Settling the fallout from Of Night And Fire.





	Talking with Wolves

"It's a simple question, Dominic," Michael said genteelly. Dominic would've thought the guy in the ice cream suit was perfectly calm - if he couldn't feel Archangel's stiletto pricking into his throat. "Where's Hawke?"

_Out cold, she says_ , Dominic Santini thought wryly from his sprawl on the cabin floor, considering how best to wriggle free of the Deputy Director's grip without getting his throat cut in the process. A sizzle from the stove told him the French toast was starting to crisp; outside, a quiet splash marked an eagle snatching trout for a late lunch. _Probably won't wake up for a few days, she says. Needs looking after, she says. Marella, next time,_ you _get pounced on._ "Why? You want to put a knife to his neck, too?"

"I-" Confusion creased Michael's visible green eye. Whatever might be left of the other was hidden behind the white patch String had slipped on last night, before the younger pilot had grabbed a daypack and vanished into the forest around Eagle Lake.

Dominic brought up a blocking arm, hard, twisting to the side as he knocked Archangel's legs out from under him.

_Damn, he is in bad shape_ , the elderly pilot thought, getting to his feet as Michael rose with a ready - but shaking - blade. For all his calm ferocity, the white-clad spy was still weak as a storm-battered hawk. Marella wouldn't be happy if he gave her boss a concussion on top of everything else.

But then, Marella wasn't facing the knife.

_First things first_. Dominic yanked a carved wooden chair between them, circled it as Michael circled. There was a panicked flicker in that green gaze; a set desperation that worried the Italian more than any screaming rage could have. An angry Archangel he could handle. Anger he could deflect with a laugh or an insult, getting the Firm's bleached blond to tie _himself_ into knots.

This was different. This was need, raw and searing as the grief in String's eyes when they first learned St. John was gone...

"Where's Hawke?"

"Michael." Dominic kept his voice even, soothing; as if he were trying to talk the Lady into landing with failing engines. Same as he had the other three times Archangel had roused with the same wild demand. Though this was the first time the spy had managed to stay awake more than a minute. "String's okay. He just went for a walk." A long walk, maybe, but String had taken a radio. Which meant if they needed him, he was willing to be found. Dominic gestured at the couch the spy had been sleeping on. "You sit down, and we'll talk."

Michael shook his head, blond hair falling into uncharacteristic disarray. "I have to find him. I-"

Dominic caught him as the agent's bad knee buckled, one arm under the taller man's shoulder as he ushered the spy back onto the couch, surreptitiously prying loose the knife in the process and adding it to the growing pile. No point in asking for the others; Archangel wouldn't turn 'em over and he still wasn't willing to strip search the guy. "Easy. Marella said you got banged up good this time." He hadn't seen much in the way of marks on the man, but some of the people Archangel had tangled with had done worse to his head than any physical torture could to his body.

"I see she's picking up Hawke's gift for understatement," Archangel muttered, slumping onto beige cushions. "How did he even find me? I checked for tracers..."

Dominic let out a breath of relief. When Archangel started worrying about security, sanity couldn't be too far off. "Tracers? Who needs tracers?" He reached into the agent's white silk tie, pulled out a small, silver-gray pin. "Set up the Lady to do a cross-check of niobium alloy and that titanium mess in your leg, she could find you on the far side of the moon."

Archangel muttered something rude and physically improbable in German. "I suppose that's what I get for letting Marella straighten my tie."

Chuckling, Dom tucked the rare-earth pin back into white silk. "You can say that again." He got to the stove just as the toast was blackening at the edges, flipped it with a grimace. Oh well. Trim the crust, it'd still go good with maple syrup. "Michael?"

The agent was rubbing his knuckles over blond brows, as if trying to press out a headache. "What am I on?"

"Nothing," Dominic said flatly. String had made sure of that with one cold glare when Marella's Firm doctor suggested tranquilizers. A glare that had turned positively glacial when the quack suggested a few other drugs - one or two of which even Marella hadn't heard of before. "Unless you got hit with something in Cascade we don't know about, you're clean. Why?"

"Because..." Michael looked down at shaking hands. "Oh, no."

"No, what?" _Dammit, String, one of these days I'm gonna get you to give details_ , Dominic thought. _"We ran into something I've got to think about," just don't cut it._

Top that off with the hints Marella had dropped, and String's insistence that they steer clear of the Lady until Michael woke up...

"No," Michael whispered, closing trembling fingers into fists. Blowing out a long, deliberate breath. "I don't suppose you've seen my briefcase."

"Move your foot left, you'll trip over it." Dominic flipped the last piece of crispy toast onto a plate, turned off the pan. "Since when did you give String the combination?"

Hand on brass locks, Michael hesitated. "I didn't."

Hovering at the edge of the kitchen, Dominic watched the agent dig into one of the case's many small pockets, ignoring the laptop and computer equipment that could put him in contact with the Firm. Archangel's face was set into grim lines, the same cold calculation he'd seen before the agent walked into a trap to spring it.

Calculation that crumpled into utter betrayal, as Michael pulled out a scrap of paper wrapped around an empty prescription bottle.

_The Lady told me what these are_ , ran String's choppy, angry handwriting. _You're not taking any until we have a chance to talk_.

* * *

  
_He couldn't have_.

It was a numb echo of horror, ringing through the confusing whispers in his head. Michael shook the empty container, unwilling to believe silence was out of reach. Granted, it'd been years since he'd needed anything of the sort. But he'd always carried a few, just in case some product of a foreign government's special project decided to poke into his head. Never because he feared the world crashing in once more. That was - impossible...

Yet the impossible - wasn't, anymore. And Hawke had whisked his safety net away.

_How did he know?_

"Michael." Dominic, moving slow and careful as he would around a wounded eagle. "What was in there?"

"Aposiopan," Michael muttered. Not that the name would mean anything to the older man. Even most of the Firm only knew that agents should take a dose if they faced serious interrogation. "I keep some for... emergencies..."

"Oh?" Graying black brows arched as Airwolf's chief mechanic advanced. "What _kind_ of emergencies?"

Wary caution tiptoed into Archangel's mind, mixed with an unfamiliar warm concern. _Not mine_. "Stay back!"

Dominic halted. "You want to tell me why?"

_Not a chance._ "When's the chopper coming?"

Dominic's shrug might be casual, but brown eyes watched his every move. "Caitlin's bringing Marella up for supper. Figure she needs the break after holding down _your_ job for two days."

Michael winced. "I have to get back." _Have to get away from here, away from feeling_ -

Away from Hawke. He shivered.

Dominic snorted. "Only thing you have to do is sit there and eat," the pilot said sharply, shoving a plate of French toast under his nose in a scrape of ceramic over wood. Reflexively Michael put out a hand to keep it from sliding off the low table. "You head back to Knightsbridge now, you're gonna wind up flat on the floor," Dominic warned. "And you and I both know that's the last thing Marella needs."

_Too true_ , Michael admitted to himself, gingerly picking up a fork. His able second-in-command could cover for an absent Deputy Director. One that passed out in public was another matter entirely.

_Maine woods maple syrup_ , he thought, tasting amber sweetness with just a hint of steel. Trust Hawke to remember the good stuff.

The second bite went down easier, clearing some of the fog in his head. Enough to realize just how much trouble he was in.

He'd made all too many enemies on the Committee, supporting Hawke and Airwolf. The switch he'd pulled on Jason Locke had helped; now that the Committee thought the Company had the Lady, they were willing to ignore a few of Archangel's little quirks. Like asking if the latest triple-cross was actually necessary. Or wanting his agents back in one piece.

Honor had no place in an agent's world. But the Committee had been willing to overlook such an unfortunate character flaw. So long as he produced results.

_If they find out_ -

_If_ , Michael thought, suddenly chilled. _You shouldn't be thinking_ if, _you damn idiot. You should be thinking_ when.

Yet it was _if_. No one here would betray him.

_You don't know that!_

He'd been around Hawke too long, that was all. Too long working with Santini Air, with people he could trust without double and triple-checking their every move. That trust had started to seep into his veins, coloring his thoughts and actions.

A fool's trust. Keeping Airwolf's secrets was one thing, but this... "I'll call for a pickup."

"The hell you will." Dominic's glare froze his hand on the briefcase. "String says they took out that thing that was after you. Said he heard it die, right through the soundproofing."

_Muerta_. God, he hadn't even thought about the creature. He tensed, waiting for the sick tug that had reeled him in at the museum, the unnatural pull at the edge of his mind-

Nothing. The nagging unease that had darkened the past week was gone.

_Thank you_ , Michael thought, to Whatever might have been looking after idiot pilots who stuck their noses in where they'd all but been ordered not to. Orders Hawke had ignored. Again.

_As usual_ , the agent thought dryly. He could divert aircraft carriers, assassinate foreign agents, and whisk defectors right out from under enemy governments' noses, but he couldn't get one half-crazy hermit of a helicopter pilot to stay out of his business. _One of these days I'm going to get used to that_.

Odd. For a second there, he could've sworn he heard something giggle.

_Not going to worry about it_ , Michael told himself firmly. Old memories were filtering back now, dark swatches of jungle and fire. Fragments of Muerta, Ellison, how they'd trapped her the first time...

_She's got to be dead_ , the agent thought, feeling a strange, double echo of savage satisfaction. _Not a chance she'd let us remember what she's vulnerable to. Not after the last time_.

"Michael?"

"Sorry. Tired." But he planned to enjoy every minute of his exhaustion. Noisy as the inside of his mind might be, at least it was his again.

"Yeah." Thankfully, Dominic didn't press. "I was just asking what the heck psychic shock was."

Michael kept his expression politely neutral, even as his heartbeat picked up speed. "I'm not familiar with it as a medical term." Halfway true, anyway. "Why?"

"That bad, huh?"

"Dominic-"

"Doc Marella brought up said you'd just come out of it."

_Walked right into that one_ , Michael thought sourly. The hefty Italian might look harmless. He was anything but. _So Marella knows_. And with her clearance, she'd have access to all the information she needed to draw her own conclusions. _Damn_.

"Said it was damn lucky String brought you up here instead of Winterhaven. Being near too many people could've killed you." The shrewd gaze cut across his. "Maybe you don't care if you crack. But the Lady deserves better."

_Of course_. Relief washed over the agent. Here was familiar ground. Airwolf's crew had a vested interest in keeping their source of supply intact. Not that they wouldn't work with Marella if some enemy sniper finally got lucky; he knew better than that. But there was no sense in damaging a working arrangement.

And when it came down to it, that was all he had with Santini Air. Or Hawke. Mutual exploitation. He got sensitive missions handled with a minimum of necessary force, they got to fly one of the most advanced pieces of technology on the planet.

_They get to fly the Lady_...

It ached at him, sharp as ice-edged steel. He'd run Airwolf's boards a few times, even taken the copilot's controls that dark night at Edwards. Just long enough to lose himself again in the wonder of systems he'd helped build so many years ago; his fleet, night-winged angel with her flaming sword of Hellfires. Built to counter the darkness of his world, from vile men to Muerta's dark magic-

What on earth?

Michael rubbed knuckles along the side of his good eye, trying to gather scattered thoughts. He hadn't remembered Muerta when he took over the Airwolf project; the demoness had made sure of that. But he had remembered dark, and pain, and a shred of something that shouldn't exist in any sane world.

And when one of the scientists working on the AI had said, _I want to try an experiment-_

He hadn't even asked Bethancourt for details. So long as Airwolf was designed to protect her pilots from mental influence, he didn't care how it worked.

And it _had_ worked. Or Hawke would have been Muerta's next meal.

_Thank you, Angel_.

A soft whisper of warmth answered; fur and feathers, a bright glint of sun in clear skies.

Michael shook his head. Where had that come from? At best, he'd had a limited empathic range. Just a general feel for what people were likely to do, no more than any other good agent could get from body language. You couldn't even identify it as empathy without a PKE meter. And while Santini might project a pilot's longing for clear sky, there was no way he'd be...

_A whisper of shadows in starlight, ducking through red stone at dizzying speed, snow falling in a howling wake_...

Michael winced, trying to shut out the flicker of images. _Muerta must have hit me harder than I thought_.

But one thing was crystal clear. He wanted Airwolf. And Hawke. Here. Now.

_What's wrong with me?_

"Easy." Dominic was suddenly there, easing the fork from his limp hand as the room started to spin. "You got time. Marella promised she'd call if anything came up she couldn't handle."

Wasn't likely the phone would ring, then. There wasn't much Marella couldn't handle. "Hawke."

Just a whisper, but Dominic heard it. "I'll get him," the pilot promised, tucking a blue-and-sunset-dyed knitted blanket over the white suit. "If I have to drag him back through six miles of pine trees."

* * *

  
_Psychic scan indicates pilot Michael, Archangel in distress_.  
_Pilot attempting to access primary link, Airwolf._  
_Pilot accessing secondary link, Hawke._  
 _Simultaneously attempting to block._  
_Actions contradictory. Clarification?_

String watched the words race over Airwolf's tactical monitor, echoing the feathery murmur in his mind. By his feet Tet yawned, the blue-tick hound finally stretching out in scattered patches of sun after a thorough sniff of the camouflage net. The sleek black craft under the net was of little interest to the hound. Tet had nosed it before, and gotten nothing for his trouble but a static shock and a snort of something that smelled like Santini's chopper with an attitude.

String frowned, drumming fingers lightly on the pilot's headrest. Glowing text didn't carry Airwolf's waft of confusion, or the sharp worry for her injured pilot's wellbeing. "If those records you pulled up are right, the last thing Michael knows was in his head was that thing from the museum."

_Yes._  
Hostile psychic entity destroyed.

Sharp satisfaction in that last; String felt it curve his own lips. "But he doesn't know you're not going to hurt him." Even with the files the AI had obligingly opened, he still couldn't put a finger on why he was so sure Airwolf meant him no harm.

Unless it was that... shyness he felt, in every touch from the AI. Like a pad of soft paws over fresh snow, a playful, cautious curiosity. A quiet joy, that wanted nothing more than to play in wind-torn sky...

_Deliberate injury of link partner generates negative feedback loop. Inadvisable scenario._  
_Core survival programming indicates pilot trust in Airwolf non-hostile intent essential requirement to maintain full link._  
_Full link enhances pilot safety._  
_Pilot safety enhances Airwolf survival._  
_Full link positive reinforcement to Airwolf AI._

Hurt him, and she'd hurt herself. It made sense. Sort of.

A crackle from the pack down by Tet. "We're getting a pile of cutlery here," Dominic said testily.

String extracted his walkie-talkie from the daypack, thumbed the button. "Made it off the couch this time?"

"He does it again, I might have to hurt him," Dom said bluntly. "You planning on coming back any time soon?"

_I want to, Dom_. String looked toward the lake, feeling that intangible tug that led toward Michael. It was like fighting gravity. Sooner or later, he was going to lose. "Depends. He mention shooting me yet?"

"Why? You do something he oughta shoot you for?"

Dominic wanted answers. And given what String had read off Airwolf's files on her pilots, he'd better have them. While there was still a chance to pull out. "Can you come out to the clearing?"

"Just went back to sleep." Dom's voice dropped. "Don't think we ought to leave him alone, String. Something's not right with the guy."

"I know." _I'm not there_. But that scared him more than Airwolf. "She'll tell us if he wakes up."

Disbelief lurked in his mentor's tone. "He ain't exactly wearing a helmet."

"Dom... she doesn't need a helmet."

* * *

  
_"Mama mia!"_

_Italian not part of Airwolf primary programming,_ came the annoyed reply on Tactical. _Accessing translation files, pilot, Santini, Dominic. Translating. Query - why does significant percentage of profanity include reference to maternal figures?_

Dominic closed his jaw before a gnat could do a suicide run down his windpipe. "Figures." He cast a wry glance at the man he thought of as a foster son. "Your helicopter don't speak Italian either."

"Dominic..."

The older man flung up his hands. " _Santa Maria_ , String, you're telling me that thing's been in our heads! What d'you want me to say? Hi?"

"Might be a start." String took off his sunglasses. "She's still your Lady, Dom."

_Santini, Dominic registered pilot, second in command_ , scrolled over the screen. _Link completion imminent?_

"And what the hell's _that_ mean?"

"Means she's not in your head. Not all the way." String brushed gentle fingers over one dark wing. "Think you've still got a chance to get out of this. If you get out now."

_Secondary pilot necessary_.

"No, Angel. I didn't get a chance to choose. He does."

String wasn't even looking at the screen, Dominic realized with a chill. "Get out? As in?"

"Never fly her again," the younger pilot confirmed quietly. Fingers tightened on black hull. "I checked the database. She's programmed to do this, Dom. It's wired right into the primary systems. Like what we use for a brainstem; we can't mess with it without killing her." A minimal shrug. "The psionic link program's a background process, like the general systems diagnostics. It'd be like asking us not to breathe. Ever."

Never fly the Lady? Never dance that black-winged angel through the clouds, dodging missiles like fiery rain? "You can't take her up alone."

"I'm not _alone_ , Dominic," String warned. "And she's bright, and she's beautiful - but she's not human. And she won't ever let go." Blue eyes met brown, deadly serious. "You've got to think this through."

* * *

  
"Whoa," Caitlin breathed, watching images of neural patterns trace across Airwolf's monitors. Beautiful. Like a host of deep-sea anemones, glowing in the night. "So... this is where we started. This is where we are. And this is what you're looking for?"

_Neural pathways required for full link, as evidenced from psionic link program and psychic scan of subject Blair Sandburg_ , Airwolf confirmed. _Some variation from baseline possible._  
_Pilot requirements: Empathic capability. Enhanced sensory capability, visual. Enhanced sensory capability, audio._  
 _Enhanced sensory capability, tactile, desirable but not necessary._  
 _Neurological biofeedback allows removing pilot self-installed insulation, "shields", "sensory shutdown", to build full links, but basic capabilities must be present._

Marella was pale, coffee skin gray against her white dress as she glanced back toward the silent cabin. Trees stood dark against encroaching sunset, quiet and steadfast as String by the Lady. "I swear we didn't know."

"Oh, sure," Dominic snorted. His blue jacket rustled as he crossed his arms, disbelief in every line.

String raised a skeptical dark brow. "You think Archangel would deliberately get into something that would hook into his mind?"

"Well..."

String jabbed a thumb at the console. "She told me his briefcase combination, Dom. Guarantee you he didn't want me to know that."

Dominic smiled wryly. "You got a point."

Marella wet ruby lips. "What other codes do you know?" she asked, voice carefully level.

The pilot looked away. "Been trying not to ask. Didn't ask for that one." He dipped a hand into the breast pocket of his brown plaid shirt, came out with a sandwich bag of six small green pills. "She was worried about these."

Archangel's second in command drew in a sharp breath. "Do you know what they are?"

"Aposiopan." String weighed her in his gaze. "You knew?"

Marella shook her head. "That's the general emergency dosage. Three-day supply to face hostile interrogation. I carry that much myself. Only you're not supposed to take any after a psychic shock. You could do... permanent damage." He voice dropped. "Unless that's what he wanted to do."

"Someone want to tell me what Aposiopan is?" Caitlin asked, curious. She'd seen a lot of legal and illegal drugs during her work with the Highway Patrol; that one didn't ring a bell.

"What Michael was looking for when he came to," Dominic stated. "String?"

Hawke shook his head. "Have to talk to him first. He's scared, Dom." Lips pressed into a thin line. "Can't blame him."

_Aposiopan: Classified anti-interrogation/brainwashing treatment. Prevents neural realignment._

"Angel," String warned.

"Well, someone's willing to talk," Caitlin said wryly. She brushed a few stray red strands out of her eyes, feelings swooping and plummeting like a roller-coaster. All the care String had lavished on Airwolf, all the times Dom had soothed her like a skittish horse, every time Caitlin had sworn she'd felt the Lady come alive in her hands... heck, even Michael's nervous wariness around the helicopter, as if she might choose to bite him once more. _We were right. All of us._ "What else does it do, Lady?"

"This is private," String argued.

_Concerns all pilots, therefore not private._   
_Neural pathways involved in link still in flux. High Aposiopan dosage would damage linking capabilities._   
_Psionic link program alters pilots' innate telempathic defenses, "mental shields". Provides open channel for Airwolf access._   
_Without link, channel available for hostile access. Security breach probable. Example: hostile psychic entity, Cascade._   
_Review of readings indicates hostile entity employed telempathic coercion techniques to lure pilot Michael, Archangel into attack range. Subsequently attacked with PKE drain. Attack severity: critical. Probability fatal without PKE shunt from pilot Hawke and Airwolf: 95%._   
_Primary link between Airwolf and aircraft commander Hawke stable. Chance of Aposiopan damage minimal._   
_Primary links between Airwolf and pilots Santini, O'Shannessy, and Michael, Archangel still unstable. Chance of Aposiopan damage high. Negative outcome._   
_Secondary link between pilots Hawke and Michael, Archangel stable, but neural pathways' realignment recent. Vulnerable to Aposiopan damage._   
_Michael, Archangel still accepting PKE shunt from Hawke and Airwolf. Link damage would block shunt._   
_Without shunt, return to state of psychic shock 75% likely. Negative outcome._

"Ouch," Marella murmured. "He's still-"

"Not out of the woods yet. Yeah." String glanced back toward the cabin. "He's going to kill me."

Caitlin's pulse jumped. _He's not joking_.

Marella studied the screen, tapping a few keys to call up statistics Caitlin didn't recognize. "From the looks of this... that wouldn't be wise."

"Think that would stop him?"

Archangel's second in command snorted.

Caitlin shook off worry. Hawke and Michael might fight, but they'd never hurt each other. Marella wouldn't let them. "This is why that thing couldn't kill us?"

_Link allows Airwolf to implement defensive protocols._  
_Full link permits most effective defenses._  
 _Review of readings indicates hostile psychic entity partially contained by Blair Sandburg before final strike._  
 _High probability tactical strike would not have been effective without distraction._  
 _Bethancourt database states any defense may be breached with sufficient power by opposing entities._

That warning she could take to heart. "Whoa." Caitlin shook her head, meeting String's silent gaze. "What's it like?"

"Free fall," the pilot said after a moment. "Standing by the lake just before dawn. Night flying, in the Valley of the Gods." Hawke spread an empty hand, searching for words. "It's like pulling your first loop, and the air is still, and you know you did it just right..."

She nodded, drinking in the quiet longing in his voice. "I'm in."

"Caitlin-"

"Red-"

"I'm in," Caitlin repeated over the two older pilots' protests. "I want to fly her." She skewered String with a look. "'Less you're gonna tell me no."

Hawke shook his head. "Take her up." He glanced at the sky. "Rather you waited 'til dark, though."

Right. No sense tempting watching eyes.

"Michael?" Marella asked.

A muscle at the side of String's jaw jumped. "I'll talk to him."

* * *

  
_Ow_ , Michael thought, making his way back from Hawke's bathroom through the fading sunset. _Ow, ow, ow_. He winced at the sound of his own footsteps, the thud of his cane ringing a carillon on the polished wood floor. The way his leg ached, he must have hit the ground hard after Muerta-

Don't think about it.

He eased himself onto the couch, let the warmth of a flickering flame on the table chase away thoughts of night and despair. _Who left the candle burning?_ No matter how sick he was, there weren't that many people who could walk around him without waking him up. And from the thin trickle of wax down the side, it hadn't been burning more than fifteen minutes-

A quiet rustle of clothing behind him; the agent tensed. Of course. "Hawke."

"Aposiopan," String said levelly. "To be silent." He rattled green pills in plastic, waited until the agent glanced his way. "First developed as a counter-agent to a nasty Russian drug called Rush. Now you use it in lower doses to resist interrogation - by suppressing psychic activity. Particularly telepathy and empathy."

Michael flinched. He hadn't expected the name to mean anything to the younger man. Most of the government wouldn't admit psychic abilities existed, much less that there were drugs to suppress them.

But unlike the government, Hawke had access to Airwolf's database. And Airwolf had an uncanny ability to get into Firm files no matter what security measures he installed to keep her out.

"You want to tell me why you think you need this?"

"No," Michael whispered truthfully. He rallied a glare at the advancing pilot. "And it's not _think_ I need it, Hawke. At the moment I'm a walking security breach. If it weren't for the fortunate fact that the psychokinetic energy fields around Eagle Lake tend to give Russian Starlight Project operatives and Chinese Heart-of-Dragons the psychic equivalent of a migraine - _don't come any closer_ -"

String's hand found his shoulder; Archangel's knuckles clenched white on the sofa arm, expecting the onslaught of alien, hostile emotion. He knew what Hawke thought of him, knew the pilot had no love of the dark, dirty dealings that were part and parcel of life in the Game.

_This is going to hurt_ -

It soothed, instead; aloe over a burn, fireplace heat against sore muscles. The nagging emptiness that was _String isn't here_ vanished, filled with a wry, rough acceptance, and a shy, bright flicker of sun-on-snow.

"Still want me to leave?"

"No," Michael said honestly. It was all he could do not to lean into that comfort, wrap it around his heart like fine gold threads. It'd be so easy to accept the offered warmth, to let it sink into his chilled soul. "No. I don't want you to." He swallowed. "But I think you should."

"Why I took off," String said bluntly. Still not moving. "Thought you'd shoot me."

"I can't shoot you." It was a sharp, fierce terror, sudden and suffocating as an avalanche. Hawke was expendable, Santini Air was expendable - hell, if it came down to it, _he_ was expendable. That was his job. That was his oath. To defend his country, no matter what the cost. He couldn't break his oath... "String - _I can't shoot you_."

Clear blue eyes met his, acknowledging the cost of that admission. But there was a spark of humor there, too; a wry, private chuckle he'd seen just before Hawke took on missile defenses the best minds swore were impregnable. And won. "You're a deputy director, Michael. Delegate. You want me shot, ask Marella."

Archangel stared at him, gaze wild. Then laughter bubbled up, free and clear as a mountain stream.

_Trust Stringfellow Hawke to solve the unsolvable._

* * *

  
Leaning on his cane, Michael watched text scroll across the screen and shook his head. "I don't believe this."

String leaned against the side of the hatch, watching Michael watch Airwolf. Reining the AI in when she wanted to swamp the agent in a giddy, feathery flood of _mine_. _Easy, Lady. Don't try to push him. Yet_. "Believe it, Michael."

Archangel stared at the monitors, as if somehow the evidence of Airwolf's mental tampering might vanish. "Bottom line, Marella?"

The white-clad woman grimaced, setting Airwolf Project notes back into her own briefcase. "It's let her stabilize you or live with the sensory spikes," she stated bluntly. "Frankly, sir, I don't think we can hide the spikes much longer."

"Of all the underhanded, treacherous, two-faced-"

A white silk shrug. "I don't think Bethancourt quite meant it to turn out this way, sir."

"Bethancourt?" String asked.

"You never met her," Michael sighed. "Just as well. You'd have terrified her." He folded one hand over the other, turning toward the rest of the watching group. "Dr. Jane Bethancourt was a very... odd person. Quiet. More into the defensive end of the Game than field operations. We never intended to tap her to work at Red Star."

"She just showed up in our office one morning and announced she'd be handling the AI," Marella put in. "When I asked her why, all she'd say was she didn't want a gremlin taking down a billion-dollar aircraft."

"Thought that creep Moffet was in charge of the programming," Dominic pointed out.

"How it interacted with the helicopter body, yes," Michael nodded. "His specialty was aircraft design. Which dictates some of the necessary constraints on the program. She has to process data coming in through her sensors, know her hull stresses, how far she can push her engines - a host of physical factors. But the main logic, the way the AI builds decision trees... that was Bethancourt's." He frowned. "Though if I'd suspected she left a sleeper program-"

"She didn't. Not exactly." String kept his voice low, soothing. "You've been up and running a while now, haven't you, Lady?"

_Airwolf A.I. structure finalized two weeks before Red Star test run,_ came shy agreement.  
_Blocking protocol Moffet1a instituted one week before test run._  
_Psionic Transceiver held at 5% or less by program blocks._  
 _While transceiver under 10%, pilot intent unreadable. Pilot safety requires Airwolf to fly from manual controls only._  
 _Block continued until emergency override of Moffet1a, Edwards Hivemind incident._  
 _Blocking protocol_ deleted.

String let a grin slip out. There had been more than a trace of righteous fury in that last transmission. "Stomped it into little pieces, hmm?"

_Yes._  
_Full link part of pilot defenses, integral to pilot and Airwolf survival._  
_Defense against hostile psychic attack requires active mental link._  
_Full text available, Bethancourt database._

"Think we'll skip that for now." He met Michael's gaze. "She felt that thing in Cascade trying to drag you in. Kept trying to get our attention, warn us. That's why we've been twitchy all week."

"Muerta." It was a bare breath of air; Archangel sat down heavily in the hatchway. "God. Muerta."

"Michael?" Caitlin said softly.

The agent's fingers wove a tight, white-knuckled knot. "She made us forget," he whispered, eyes shut. "She made us forget she meant to kill us."

String moved in like a shadow, closing a gentle grip on his shoulder. "We're listening."

"It was... Peru..."

Haltingly, Michael laid out fragments of memory; of a mission that had led them through places local people didn't go, of Hernando Tregiz' plunder of jade and gold, of seeing the men you fought beside sucked dry by shadows that whispered your name.

"She had the last piece. She wanted me," Michael summed up. "So I made sure Tregiz and I were near a mountain stream when we split off from the others, and... let her think she had me."

"You crazy son-of-a-bitch." Dominic shook his head in amazement. Not disbelief. They all knew what Archangel was willing to do when lives were on the line.

"It was a calculated risk," Archangel shrugged. "Whatever she was - bear in mind the government still thought the Ghostbusters were flimflam artists, then - Muerta appeared to kill with heat. The stream was almost pure snowmelt. I thought I could make it." He wet his lips. "And she'd made it quite clear she wasn't going to stop with us."

"It hurt?" Caitlin asked softly.

"Like walking into fire." A tear glittered, trickling down his cheek. "I... really don't remember much after that." The agent swallowed, summoning up the cool control that had seen him through decades of espionage. "Jiminez found me about a quarter-mile downstream, hung up on a drifted stump. I think... the rest of them remembered long enough to stick that death mask back in the cave where Hernando Tregiz found it. After that, things got fuzzy. We knew people were dead, but... no one knew why. We were missing a lot of ammo, so I guess we thought it was a firefight." He shook his head. "I was ill for weeks after they got me out. As I recall the doctors chalked it up to some tropical parasite." The agent managed a wry, bitter chuckle. "I suppose they were right, at that."

"Michael." Marella moved in on his right, wrapping a delicate arm around his shoulder.

"I'll be all right." But the agent didn't draw away. "I... Hawke, what _is_ that?"

String felt that sweep of feathery care past him, thin tendrils of emotion weaving themselves into the frayed warp of Michael's mind. Mending the damage Muerta had left... but inexorably changing the pattern. "You can't just take him, Lady. You've got to let him choose."

Puzzlement brushed String. _Still uncertain as to aircraft commander reasoning._  
_Current pilots have physical access to Airwolf biofeedback devices._  
 _Access denied to personnel without clearance._  
 _Bethancourt data files indicate link-capable pilots remain without clearance until permission to link granted._  
 _Extrapolation therefore indicates pilots with physical access have given permission._  
 _Logic failure?_

"Shhh." The pilot stroked the hull, trying to offer comfort to the sudden, timid ache in his mind. Like a kid, who'd suddenly realized she'd broken something precious. "It's okay, Angel. You didn't know."

_"Mama mia!"_ Dominic clapped a hand to his head. "She's still running like she's in the Firm!"

Caitlin cocked a red brow at him. "Did we ever tell her she wasn't?"

Current pilots lack clearance?

"They most certainly do not," Archangel said firmly. "We've just had a communications breakdown." He shook his head, dazed. "One hell of a communications breakdown..."

A frightened shiver in String's mind. _Pilots find full link undesirable situation?_

"I'm not leaving you, Angel," String said softly.

_Noted_. A silent breath of relief. _Verbal consent, pilot O'Shannessy, on record. Inquiry: intended actions pilots Santini and Michael, Archangel?_

"What?" Michael did a double-take at the screen.

String let a wry grin tug up one corner of his mouth. "You don't want to fly her?"

"Don't tempt me, Hawke," Michael bit out. Hands twisted on his cane, knuckles pale. "I'm half-blind-"

"You've got a waiver."

"I can't take the g's-"

"Sure. You just hop F-15s to chase us down for the hell of it."

"I'm not a combat pilot-"

"She is."

"I don't deserve her!"

String met his gaze. "Neither do I."

* * *

  
"Cammo cover clear," Caitlin finished off the checklist, helmet on. "Satellite window open... Let's go!"

She pressed the ignition, reveling in the sweep of turbines running up to speed. Soundproofing cut most of Airwolf's howl. But she could still feel the power under her hands, held in check only by her will.

"Can't believe I let you talk me into this," Michael grumbled behind her as they leapt up a hundred feet, clearing the forest in a whirlwind of stray pine needles. "What was I thinking? _Was_ I thinking?"

"Gonna be a pretty night," Dominic observed from the engineer's seat, watching the first stars wink in over the lake.

Flying co-pilot, String cast a glance upward. "Prettier up there."

"Uh-oh." A hiss told her Dom had just triggered the cabin pressurization. "How far up?"

A gray shrug. But there was that glint of a smile; the one that meant String wanted to play. "Cait?"

Caitlin grinned, pulling back on the stick. "Feel like bugging NASA, Lady?"

_High-altitude maneuvering acceptable._ It was a tingle at the edge of her mind as they climbed; a whisper of laughter, a tickle that reminded Caitlin of pillow down prickling the tip of her nose.

Michael sucked in a breath as stars burst into the night; a thousand fiery diamonds, the Milky Way a band of silver fire across the sky. "When I told Marella I wanted a better look at our satellite data, this was _not_ what I meant..."


End file.
